


Monster

by akaya



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Gen, he's a little dead inside, it's dark baby, violence is sometimes the answer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-13
Updated: 2011-04-13
Packaged: 2017-10-18 00:53:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/183200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akaya/pseuds/akaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Everybody knows I'm a motherfucking monster.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Monster

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this inception kink_meme](http://community.livejournal.com/inception_kink/17947.html?thread=39271707#t39271707)

You're five years old when you see a dead body for the very first time. It's all very sudden and at first you don't register what is happening. There are loud noises, flashes of light and then a few seconds of pure, edgy silence. A lady in front of you drops her plastic bag, spilling round oranges on the pavement.

You pick one of them and wonder if she'd mind if you took it home with you. The colour is really vivid and bright and you think, this is what happy should look like, but you don't understand why.

It's not the time for this yet.

You snap out of it when people, mostly adults, you notice, scream, mumble and crowd around the glass phone booth, now in pieces thanks to a car that'd smashed into it moments before.

You watch them with mild interest, walking closer. There is an arm, twisted and lifeless, sticking out of the remains of the aforementioned booth and a growing puddle of red blood on the ground.

You think it's a nice colour, prettier than the orange, that you pocket anyway, no one is paying any attention to you, and make a decision to ask your mother to buy you a sharpie like that.

Your name is Arthur Callahan.

+

You're seventeen when you attend your first funeral. The suit you're wearing makes you look awkward and you feel like a fool, but it pleases your mother. You think it does, but you can't be sure, because she avoids looking you in the eyes, _avoids looking at you at all,_ and weeps into her elegant handkerchief.

You don't blame her, or at least that is what you keep repeating to your family members and other people attending the ceremony. _You don't blame her, because the body in the coffin could as well be you. Is you, only dead._ You know people think that, it's in their eyes when they look over at you, thinking they're being subtle about it.

You step over to the altar, walk over to the coffin to say the last goodbye. You do it only because your mother thinks you need it. She thinks you're heartbroken and terrified and it's her twisted way of making things right and you play along, as always. It's the only thing you do these days.

You play by the rules, made by other people. It's easy and comfortable and makes them think that you care. That you're alive, a perfectly normal member of the society.

You don't and you aren't.

You're Arthur Callahan and it's your twin brother's funeral.

You hide your smile in your hands.

+

 

You're twenty-three when you meet Dom Cobb and his wife. It's your night shift in McDonald and there aren't many people around, so you lean against the cash register and read the latest issues of Forbes, more to spite your co-workers than in actual interest.

It's five minutes to midnight when a couple walks in, all laughs and hushed whispers. You look up, a habit rather than actual curiosity and it slaps you in the face how _out-of-place_ they look. It makes you put away your magazine and stare at them, taking in their clothes and the way they act.

The moment you realize they're in love is the moment you loose their interest in them, so you snort and go back to your magazine.

The woman walks over and orders two big coffees with a smile. You nod and ask if that's all, but instead of answering she says her name is Mallorie, Mal in short. _I don't care_ , you say before you can stop himself and ask if she'd like to order anything else, to cover your slip. She shakes her head and you give her the receipt, before turning to the coffee machine.

You consider spitting in her coffee, to wipe the flirty look off her face. You would like that, maybe throw a nasty smirk in there as well. You're in a mood for a brawl.

Your name is Arthur Callahan and you generally find yourself hating the world.

You hand her two cups and ask if she'd like sugar to go with it and she asks if you find her attractive. You scowl and point out at the small containers on the counter next to her, before turning and announcing it's time for your smoke break.

The man corners you in the alley by the back door, introducing himself as Dominic Cobb. You blow a cloud of smoke into his face, before dropping the cigarette and crushing it with your fifteen dollars sneaker.

 _I'm not into threesomes,_ you say and look him in the eye, before giving him a careful once over, noticing the dark stains that could only be blood. _This needs to be dry cleaned_ , you point out and step around him. You don't have more break time to spare.

+

 _What was she like?_ Asks Ariadne, when you first go under with her, explaining how the mazes and paradoxes work. You'd prefer for her to concentrate on the work at hand, but of course she'd try to pry and ask about Mal.

 _She was lovely,_ you lie and continue your lesson.

+

 

The inception takes. Cobb's impossible job is a success and he even manages to pull Saito out of the limbo in the process. 

You smirk and pretend to be business-like relieved., the money for the job already on their way to your account. Another con pulled off, without getting caught red-handed.

You're are disappointed. It's not the way it was supposed to go. The job was supposed to be a fiasco, you were there to make sure it was and yet.

You failed, because you got too cheeky, thinking that hiding a few facts about Fischer's subconsciousness combined with Cobb's unstable behaviour would be enough to make sure it all went to hell. It didn't.

  
 _Not enough excitement for you to crack a smile, Arthur?_ Eames asks, coming to stand next to you, but looking straight ahead. You doesn't even spare him a glance, looking through your pockets for a passport, but Eames is not a man that gives up easily. _It sometimes happens that two strangers have a chit-chat in a public place, like an airport for example._

 _I do not do chit-chats, Mr. Eames,_ you answer with an annoyed huff, turning to look at the man, taking in his scrutinizing gaze and a small smirk playing on his lips. A façade, perfect in its making, almost as good as yours.

Almost is the key word here. Eames is smart, brilliant maybe, _you can admit that to yourself at least_ , but he lacks the edge. He'd never crossed the line, you can see it in his eyes, in the way he carries himself. He might've pushed it, lean on it, but he'd never crossed it.

You smirk at the thought and Eames' hand twitches, suddenly the look he's giving you is different, disbelieving and maybe even scared.

 _You did know about Fischer's subconsciousness, didn't you?_ He asks, but you know he's already got the answer, so you let him talk. Let him realise by himself what kind of person you really are. It's the same old game, when you play by the rules and let people assume whatever they like and feel comfortable with.

You're twenty-nine and your name is Arthur. You don't have a family or a surname. You're just a name with no roots anywhere, like a ghost, you float in-between the life of dream and reality.

+

You're twenty-four and it's your first time killing a man outside of the dream. It's an unfortunate accident, you only wanted him to calm down a bit. The sedation wore off too early and he started screaming and pulling at his bounds, so you caught him by his neck, squeezing and watching as his face turned red with a hint of purple, before going completely slack.

You don't feel any remorse.

+

You're twenty-four and it's your first time working with a forger. This Eames person is obnoxious, loud and has an annoying tendency to sprout random comments that border on the sexual harassment line, but he's good at his job, actually making it a bit less dull and a bit more entertaining for you.

You think that's the reason, you're not exactly angry when a mad mob of angry projections attacks you in the middle of the dream, successfully cornering you in the middle of a detective office, pulled straight from old noir movies.

You tear through them throwing punches and kicks, you're out of the ammo, but it doesn't stop you from being violent and efficient in your killing. You buy the team enough time to make the extraction a success.

 _That could be considered terrifying in some circles, Arthur,_ Eames chuckles next to you, pulling the needle out of his arm and prodding at it, making sure it doesn't bruise.

 _Everybody knows I'm a motherfucking monster, Eames_ , you counter, but by the look on his face he thinks you're joking.

You're not.

  
 _End_


End file.
